


Red Like Bleeding

by j_s_cavalcante



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Tag, Grief, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_s_cavalcante/pseuds/j_s_cavalcante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser's strong enough that Jack can't hurt him. Not even with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Like Bleeding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeenell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeenell/gifts).



> Follows the events of "Juliet is Bleeding."
> 
> **Warning**: Canon deaths of Louis Gardino and Irene Zuko.
> 
> Thanks to aukestrel and to nos4a2no9 for speedy and cheerful beta services, as always.
> 
> For zeenell, who wanted Fraser/Huey, and kept me talking till I allowed that I could see at least one scenario.

 

Louis Gardino is Jack Huey’s partner. His swaggering, abrasive, obnoxious, mismatched, gum-popping, smoking, reliable, funny, sometimes smart, sometimes naïve partner.

 

How a Chicago police detective who’s been married three times can possibly be naïve, even sometimes, Jack doesn’t know. But Louis is all of that.

 

They’re out with Vecchio and Fraser, celebrating Vecchio’s promotion to Detective 1st grade. Vecchio’s buying them all dinner, and Fraser calculated that Vecchio’s spending most of his raise on the dinner, but Vecchio doesn’t care. He’s funny like that. Jack doesn’t mind. He figures Vecchio owes him and Louis more than one for all the times Vecchio dissed them or did an end run around them with Welsh.

 

Yeah, Vecchio owes them a dinner, at least.

 

Except the restaurant’s already occupied. Vecchio gets into a shouting match with some guy from his old neighborhood who turns out to be Frankie Zuko. _The_ Frankie Zuko, who’s celebrating his birthday and accepting homage from all the lesser lights on the mob stage. It sticks in Vecchio’s craw, and Jack understands that. Understands even better when he notices Vecchio has eyes for Frankie’s sister. This isn’t something new, this is old: anybody can see from their expressions that she and Vecchio have a history.__

 

Jack glances at Louis and Fraser. Louis is only interested in the menu. He’s determined to have a feast tonight on Vecchio’s dime, and he’s like a puppy, Jack thinks. All smiles, jeez, even wiggling around like one, like he’s wagging his damn tail. Jack can’t help noticing Louis’s damn tail because he’s always cramming it into too-small trousers, like he can’t afford to buy the size that fits. Since Louis eats like a horse and never gains a pound—Louis isn’t skinny, but he’s trim, muscular—Jack figures the reason the pants are tight is that they’re the same damn pants the guy wore in high school. They look like it, too. Plaid. Christ. Who wears plaid pants?

 

Jack figures Louis probably can’t afford new ones even on a detective’s salary because of all the alimony.

 

Fraser’s watching Vecchio and Frankie’s sister. They’re dancing. Fraser’s eyes follow them. Jack wonders what he’s thinking.

 

It’s not like anyone can follow Big Red’s thought processes. Jack regularly gets inside the minds of killers and thieves and small-time cons so he can bust them and lock them up. But he can’t figure out the Mountie.

 

Jack watches him watching Vecchio dance with Irene Zuko. Fraser has this real quiet, thoughtful look on his face, and Jack wonders if it’s jealousy. He wonders if it bothers Fraser, because he and Vecchio are thick as thieves, and Fraser’s odd, offbeat, even weird. He doesn’t have normal guy reactions. Maybe Fraser’s the type to be jealous even if he and Vecchio really are just friends.

 

Louis is still fidgeting. He’s not the kind of guy who can sit still. Maybe he wants to get up and dance, too, but he won’t be stupid enough to actually do it, like Vecchio. Jack tells him to keep his damn tail in his chair.

 

So, yeah, Jack notices Louis’s damn tail. But he doesn’t want any. Louis is like a crazy younger brother: annoying, persistent, lovable. And yeah, Jack loves him like a brother, he really does. But Louis is no more than that, and he isn’t Jack’s type, anyway. When Jack has a type, it’s a lot more like Big Red, who’s so beautiful it makes your eyes hurt. Fraser always looks like he walked out of an issue of GQ, even in jeans and untied hiking boots.

 

God, especially in jeans.

 

Nobody knows any of this. Jack can’t afford to let anybody know. Jack’s a cop, and he’s married, even though his wife wouldn’t care if he got it on with a guy or two, as long as he didn’t push the details in her face. She just doesn’t want him looking at other women, and that one’s easy, because Jack doesn’t. Jillian’s enough woman for him. She’s enough everything for him, except at those times when things go down bad during a bust, or Jack has to see stuff nobody should ever see, see people hurt each other in ways nobody should ever be hurt.

 

There’s times like that when Jack can’t take that shit home to Jillian. She’s good and sweet and she doesn’t deserve any of it. And there’s times when Jack needs to fight it out. Fuck it out, sometimes, with somebody who’s strong and tough, someone he can’t hurt.

 

Jillian’s a smart lady. She knows how to ignore what’s in front of her face, she really does. So Jack’s not worried about her figuring out he sometimes jumps that fence he’s on.

 

Jack’s pretty sure the Mountie wouldn’t freak out if he knew. The guy’s fair. He believes everybody deserves respect. He’d never get on a guy’s case just because he was a little bent.

 

Heck, Big Red’s more than a little bent himself, Jack’s pretty sure. Not a hundred percent; there was that one chick that nobody at the 2-7 ever talks about, that got Dief shot and Fraser shot and that Vecchio will kill you if you bring up, but Jack’s pretty damn sure there wasn’t ever another chick, and Fraser runs away from both Vecchio’s sister and Elaine Besbriss, who both want him and who are both absolute knockouts. Fraser runs away from them and from _all_ the other women who offer themselves to him all the time.

 

No way a guy who could have that much willing pussy runs away from it unless he’s some kind of saint—or unless he’s as queer as that Canadian two-dollar coin with the pop-out center.

 

Jack doesn’t believe in saints.

 

But Fraser’s never betrayed himself any other way, not that Jack’s ever seen. So maybe he’s a monk. You never can tell about Fraser.

 

*****

 

They never get to finish that fancy dinner. Lucky for Vecchio, Pat never sends the waiter over with the bill, just waves them away, saying he don’t want no more trouble. But it’s too late, and Pat’s restaurant ends up a mess, because Zuko finally goes right off his head about Vecchio dancing with his sister, and he and his thugs start a dustup.

 

It doesn’t take 10 seconds before Jack and Louis and Fraser are all in it with Vecchio, giving as good as they’re getting. Better, even. By the time they sort everything out, they’re outside in the chilly evening air, and it’s still way too early, and somebody suggests Olympo’s, because Louis, the bottomless pit, is still hungry. It’s a stupid cop hangout, a diner, but the coffee’s good and the donuts are decent.

 

One minute Louis is there next to Jack, and then he’s turned back, calling over his shoulder for Vecchio to throw him the keys, he’s going back to Vecchio’s car for his jacket. He’s almost there when Fraser suddenly stops like something stung him, and he turns back, too. Jack hears him break into a run, yelling Louis’s name.

 

Jack’s inside Olympo’s already, Vecchio behind him, when he hears Fraser shout. He’s never heard Fraser bellow so loud.

 

Louis doesn’t hear. He takes another step and fits the key to the lock. Fraser yells: “Louis! No!”

 

There’s a deafening blast, a wind like a hurricane knocking them flat in a hail of glass: it blows out the diner’s front windows, sweeps everything off the counters, throws cops off the barstools. Everyone’s flattened. But everyone’s moving, and they’ll pick themselves up. Huey hauls Vecchio to his feet and they tear out the door towards Fraser, who’s picking himself up off the asphalt, staring across the street to where Louis was—

 

Louis isn’t there. Jack sees only the burning wreck of Vecchio’s car, the flames leaping, hot on his face as he and Vecchio rush forward.

 

Somehow, Fraser gets in Jack’s way. Vecchio, too.

 

Jack has to go get Louis. He’s got to get Louis away from that burning car. But Fraser and Vecchio won’t let him. They have him by both arms, pinning him in place. They’re twenty yards away, and Jack can feel the heat. It’s too hot even to stand here. He can’t see anything but the flames. It’s so hot. It’s too hot for Louis. Jack has to get him out.

 

Jack is Louis’s partner. He’s supposed to have his back. He’s supposed to get him out.

 

He’s screaming that at Fraser and Vecchio, and he almost succeeds in pulling free, but they spin him around and hang on, and they’re too strong. Vecchio’s saying words Jack can’t comprehend: “It’s over, man, it’s over.”

 

*****

 

Nobody sees Louis again. Nobody except Mort, and he’s not talking except to tell Jack, “He didn’t suffer. It was instantaneous.”

 

Jack doesn’t remember much about that week, or he doesn’t let himself remember most of it, because what he does remember is clear and cold and it aches. There’s a long, drawn-out, painful service in St. Ambrose’s. Outside, cops line the street in both directions as far as you can see, the thin blue line stretching to the horizons. After, they carry Louis onto the cemetery grounds in a flag-draped coffin. Jack sees cops there he hasn’t seen in years. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen so many cops in one place, but he’s been to these things before, so he probably has.

 

He was always in the back before. He’s not the in the back now. He’s carrying Louis with Vecchio and Fraser and Welsh. Fraser’s in his red uniform, and it’s the only bright thing in the world, that and the flag.

 

Louis’s parents look broken, like Jack feels. Gardino’s mom…Jack can’t look at her. She’s transparent, he thinks. You can see right through her. Her family’s around her and she’s fading away. Louis’s father looks old enough to be his grandfather. Louis’s exes look fragile, stunned. Louis always said they could talk the paint off the walls—what was her name, Janice? Janice especially, but none of them’s saying a word now.

 

Louis’s family is here, and Jack’s wife is there in the third row, waiting to hold his hand when he’s discharged this last duty to Louis, all duties done except for the one he failed. Jack’s got thousands of brother and sister cops standing here, a sea of midnight blue with the one red spot that’s Fraser, and still he’s alone.

 

 

*****

 

 

It’s almost a week later, and Jack’s still at home, tapering off some crap the doctors pushed on him and putting off getting a psych evaluation before he goes back to work. Somebody rings his bell, gets no answer, rings again, and again, and finally comes in.

 

Fraser.

 

He stands there looking at Jack.

 

Jack’s never seen a look like that on Fraser. But he’s seen plenty of those looks on other faces, especially lately: Fraser’s sorry, he’s so sorry. He didn’t even look this sorry that time when he did those things that nobody talks about, didn’t even look this sorry when they led him away in cuffs.

 

Not even when he lay on the train platform bleeding.

 

Jillian’s gone out. She can’t stand being around Jack all the time; it’s too depressing, and Jack doesn’t blame her. He wants her to get out for a bit, get fresh air, get away from his pain. He doesn’t want it getting on her. She doesn’t need that.

 

He loves her, and she loves him, but she doesn’t understand, so she can’t really help.

 

Jack can’t stop feeling it’s somehow his fault that he couldn’t get Louis out. The lieu tried to tell Jack that Louis was killed by the blast, not the fire, and that getting him out wouldn’t have done any good, but Jack wasn’t listening so good that day. He didn’t want to hear the details. He’s not on the case. He can’t read the reports; no one will let him. They’re not even letting Vecchio read them, and Vecchio’s getting the collar on Michael Sorrento, because Fraser figured out Sorrento did it.

 

Vecchio feels guilty that somebody blew up Louis when they were trying for him. Vecchio feels guilty that Zuko’s sister Irene got caught in the crossfire, and Vecchio didn’t get her out in time. Jesus, Vecchio went to two funerals that week, one for a woman he used to love and maybe still did, but Jack’s the one that Fraser’s come to aim that worried look at, probably because Jack is more fucked up. Vecchio, for all his guilt, has a spine of titanium steel, and he’s making it through without drugs and doctors and worried looks from people.

 

From Benton Fraser, of all people.

 

Fraser’s got guilt, too, even though he didn’t do anything wrong. Jack knows Fraser feels guilty that he couldn’t yell loud enough to stop Louis from touching the car, or that he somehow didn’t figure it out twenty seconds sooner.

 

They all feel guilty, but it’s no one’s fault except those creeps who wired Vecchio’s car. And it’s Zuko’s fault, Jack thinks, even after they know Fraser was right and Zuko had nothing to do with it. Zuko’s still to blame, somehow, even though he didn’t really do it.

 

They didn’t get Zuko on Murder One for his sister, but he’s facing the manslaughter and reckless endangerment charges, because that’s what Louise St. Laurent thinks is fair. He’s facing conspiracy and a whole bunch of other charges, too. Zuko’s lawyer isn’t weaseling his client out of this; he’s smart enough to recognize Zuko’s good luck that Vecchio insisted Irene’s death was an accident. If Zuko’s lawyer digs too deep and makes Vecchio testify, it’s going to come out that Zuko was pointing his gun at Vecchio when the accident happened, and then the attempted murder of a police officer charge is going to look a lot more possible. Because if an accident happens in the commission of a felony, the accident can get prosecuted like it was intentional. Zuko’s lawyer knows that Manslaughter is a much lighter charge than Murder Two.

 

So there’s plenty of guilt to go around.

 

But nobody was fair to Fraser. Jack’s guilty of that, too. Especially that, because Fraser may wear red or brown instead of blue, but he’s a brother cop right down the line, and he didn’t deserve that from Jack, most of all because he was _right_.

 

Vecchio’s probably guilty about treating Fraser badly, too, but Fraser owes Vecchio in a way he doesn’t owe Jack, and it’s none of Jack’s business, anyway. Jack has to apologize for his own behavior.

 

If he can find a way to get the words out.

 

Turns out he doesn’t need to, because Fraser comes and sits next to him on the couch and puts his hand on top of Jack’s.

 

Just _puts his hand on him,_ like cops don’t do to cops in Chicago if they’re smart, and why hasn’t Vecchio clued Fraser in about that? Jack knows Vecchio doesn’t go for that kind of stuff, no matter how touchy-feely-Italian he is. Jack’s about to say something about that when Fraser reaches for his other hand and pulls him right into his arms, hugging him.

 

Jack loses it. He cries all over Fraser’s pretty sweater till it’s damp under his face, and Fraser just holds him tight, practically pulling him into his damn lap to hold him, and lets him cry.

 

It doesn’t last long, because Jack doesn’t have that many tears left inside him. He just needs an end to this, he just needs a little _relief, _why can’t anyone see that? Jack’s been around and around this thing, over and under, and he can’t get through; he can’t get away from it. It’s like Louis is haunting him. Except if Louis was haunting him, he’d show up in his ugly plaid pants and laugh his asshole laugh at Jack, and it would almost be normal. Jack would rib him, ask him why he can’t get better threads in the place where the hero cops go, and maybe it would even be a little bit okay.

 

But Jack hasn’t seen him, not really, even though he’s there behind Jack’s eyelids every time he closes his eyes: Louis with his arms outstretched, his back to Jack, naked and burning, haloed in fire, burning, burning.

 

It didn’t go down that way, but that’s what Jack sees, and he needs somebody, something, to make it go away. Something like what’s holding him tight right now, gorgeous guy all buttoned down and buttoned up, square jawed and sincere, all guy, yet holding onto him like he doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—what it looks like.

 

And God, he smells good. Jack knows Fraser lives in his little tenement apartment with the door unlocked and the windows open, every day of the year. But Fraser doesn’t smell like the alleys off Racine. Fraser smells like the big outdoors, some place with good air and pine trees and wild rivers with rapids and everything.

 

That’s what gets Jack’s attention, finally, that fresh-outdoorsy smell. That and the fact that Fraser’s knee is brushing Jack’s thigh. They’re practically tangled up together on the couch, and Fraser’s knee, perfectly shaped under those tight-ass jeans, is a spot of heat against Jack’s thigh. Jack squints down to look. Fraser’s practically kneeling in Jack’s lap, holding him tight like he’s afraid Jack’s going to bolt and throw himself overboard. Except there’s no boat, and all Jack can see is the polished wood of the floor and Fraser’s socks, because Fraser stepped out of his untied hiking boots and left them over by the door.

 

Fraser’s white socks actually have darned patches on them. Jack’s grandmother darned socks, but who the hell does it these days?

 

Who the hell does half the screwball things Fraser does?

 

Nobody, that’s who. It’s a sure thing that no other cop in Chicago, not even another Mountie, would sit here and hold Jack like this. And that, and Fraser’s outdoorsy smell, and his big solid body up against Jack chokes him up in a whole different way.

 

Jack doesn’t mean to react. It can’t be right to react like this when a guy is trying to comfort you, even if he is doing it in an oddball Canadian way. But Jack didn’t want to cry, either. His body is not listening to him so good these days. He’s hard just like that, and it takes his brain about a whole minute to figure out that the _other_ spot of heat, the one that his hard cock is pressed right up against, is Fraser’s hip.

 

Jack’s kind of big and rawboned, if not actually _built_; Fraser’s just about the same size, maybe an inch or two shorter, but solid as a brick wall. It’s not enough that he looks like some kind of poster boy for the wholesome Canadian outdoors, he’s got to be warm as a comforter and sincere as a boy scout and strong as a bear, too.

 

Jesus, he’s strong. Strong enough that Huey can’t hurt him. Not even with _this,_ this dark hole inside Jack that’s trying to devour him. Fraser’s strong enough even for that.

 

It’s everything Jack needs at this moment, and he’s too slow and clumsy right now to pull back and pretend he doesn’t.

 

It’s too late, anyway, because eagle-eyes Fraser never misses anything.

 

Jack tries to apologize, but he doesn’t move away, he stays there pressed up against Fraser because he just needs to.

 

Fraser doesn’t pull away, either. “It’s all right,” Fraser says. “Grief does odd things to a person. I understand.”

 

Huey leans back a little and looks at him like he’s got more than one screw loose. “It’s not grief.”

 

Both of Fraser’s eyebrows go up.

 

“It’s not?”

 

“Fraser, when you look in the mirror, do you see anything like what everybody else sees? Do you even notice that every eligible woman in Chicagoland wants you?”

 

“Well, I, er, women are…well, they’re…it’s difficult to know what they…”

 

“Yeah,” Huey says. “Yeah. And it’s not only women that…react…to…” he waves his hand at Fraser’s perfect hair, perfect everything. Disgustingly perfect, Jack would be thinking, if he wasn’t right this minute thinking about Fraser’s perfect ass. His mouth waters.

 

Fraser looks at him with narrowed eyes, like he’s trying to figure him out.

 

“So you…want…”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“Doesn’t your wife…”

 

Jack shook his head. “She understands scratching an itch. She understands there’s some stuff I don’t bring home to her because it’s too big, too scary. I’d rather fight it out before I see her.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Fraser scrabbles at his eyebrow for a second. “Then you’d…you’d like…”

 

Jack shrugs, but his face must be answering, because Fraser nods. Swallows hard. And reaches for Jack’s zipper.

 

 

Fraser slips to his knees, pushes Jack’s trousers open, down, maneuvering them over his hips to get them out of the way. Jack has silk boxers on underneath, and Fraser slips them down so easy that it’s like they disappeared. He pushes the clothes down on Jack’s thighs, but doesn’t push them off.

 

They’re neither of them saying why, saying they don’t know when Jillian’s coming back, and no matter how cool she is with Jack getting his rocks off with another guy, she don’t need to walk in her house and _see_ that.

 

The velvety stuff the couch is covered in is soft under Jack’s bare ass.

 

Fraser’s moving his hand, pushing the hem of Jack’s shirt up and out of the way, his undershirt, too, pushing them up to where they’ll stay out of the way. And then Fraser’s hand is closing around Jack’s cock, tight and warm and really, really good.

 

“Yeah. God, yeah,” Jack murmurs as Fraser strokes him a couple of times, experimentally.

 

“Do you want…” Fraser hovers over Jack’s cock, his fingers curled around it, firm but gentle. He licks his lip fast, and Jacks’ heart jumps. Dear sweet Jesus, Fraser’s asking…

 

“Yeah, sure,” Jack manages to say, wondering how his voice comes out almost normal, when Fraser is offering to…

 

Fraser pulls back to give himself some room, lowers his head, and takes Jack’s cock in his mouth.

 

Jack lets out a long groan, his voice cracking through it. His breathing speeds up; his heart’s pounding. Benton Fraser is sucking him. The knowledge that the big red Mountie is sucking him is almost as good as the actual feeling. Because this is the Mountie, the sincere, weird, poster-boy-beautiful Mountie who helps Vecchio show Jack up all the time at work, and he is kneeling and sucking Jack’s cock like he’s been starved for it.

 

Maybe he has. Big Red doesn’t let a lot of people close to him. Vecchio’s really the only one, and Jack’s pretty sure they don’t do this.

 

Fraser times his strokes to his sucking, and Jack can’t help rocking his hips a little, pushing himself into Fraser’s mouth. He imagines leaning over Fraser on the couch and fucking his face. That would be heaven, he thinks. But he’s not going to ask for that, not something like that, when they aren’t anything more to each other than colleagues and maybe even friends, a little. Jack’s played poker with him (dumb idea; the Mountie’s as good at that as he is at everything, but luckily he’ll only take you for a pile of matchsticks or maybe candy, _because gambling for actual currency would be illegal, Detective, as you well know_) and hung out with him and Vecchio sometimes, and Louis always says—said…

 

Jack groans, not a sound of pleasure, and Fraser loses his rhythm, his hand and mouth stuttering on the out-stroke. Jack’s cock slips out between those red lips.

 

“Are you all right?” Fraser’s face is concerned.

 

“Yeah,” Jack breathes. “Yeah, it just…hurts, you know?”

 

“I’m hurting you?” Fraser’s face goes even paler. His hand goes slack.

 

“No, no,” Jack’s hand flails toward his own chest. “Just…can’t stop thinking.”

 

“Ah.” Fraser’s hand closes firmly on him again, starts moving on him, slow, soothing.

 

“What if I…if I could’ve—”

 

“You couldn’t,” Fraser says. “There wasn’t any way.” He doesn’t stop stroking Jack.

 

“Aw, no. I know he was…he was gone before the car burned, I realize that. I’m not even thinking I should have known about the bomb, because nobody knew about the bomb except the perp.” His voice cracks.

 

“I suspected…something,” Fraser says, his face still and pale as snow in the fading afternoon light. “I couldn’t put it together in time.” His lower lip trembles.  “It was a matter of seconds. I tried to call Louis back. He didn’t hear me.”

 

Huey’s put his hand on Fraser’s shoulder, kind of wrapped it around, so he’s cupping the muscle. Hard muscle, like rock, but trembling.

 

“He didn’t hear you, Red. I heard you, but he didn’t.” Huey swallows. “Must’ve been like Jillian says. Just Louis’s time. Nothing anybody could have done to stop it.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I been thinking the dumbest things, Red. I been thinking, so why couldn’t I have let him smoke in my car one more time? What would it have hurt?”

 

Fraser’s eyes are dark with sympathy. “Jack—” he says, and Jack has to think about it for a second. He doesn’t think Fraser has ever called him anything but “Detective Huey” before.

 

“Watch me,” Fraser says. “Try to focus only on what I’m doing, all right?” He lowers his head again.

 

“All right.” If Jack can’t focus on the Mountie blowing him, he might as well hang it up right here, yeah?

 

Fraser takes Jack’s cock back into his mouth. He starts sucking again, not tentative this time. Harder and faster, and he strokes Jack to match.

 

Jack does what Fraser asked and just watches it, his heart beating fast, his breath rasping. His cock is shiny with Fraser’s spit, purplish-brown, and Fraser’s hand on it is pale like cream, and Fraser’s lips are so red. Red like bleeding. Red like fire. Red like pain.

 

No pain now. And, yeah, the pleasure’s so intense it almost hurts, not in Jack’s body—that feels good—but in Jack’s heart, where he’s been pretty sure all week that he doesn’t deserve any pleasure. Certainly not from this man, who he practically called a traitor to his face, who he accused of being soft on Zuko, who he accused of not wanting to nail Louis’s murderers.

 

This is the guy who’s blowing him right now like it’s a solemn duty, like he knows it’s going to help and that’s the only thing that he wants to do: help.

 

So Fraser’s a saint after all. A queer saint.

 

Jack should have known.

 

The big red saint is crouching on the floor in front of him and pressing the heel of his hand to the front of his own jeans as he sucks Jack sweet and fast and perfect. His steady blue eyes flutter closed and he lets out a tiny sound, a faint little “hm” of pleasure, and he pushes his crotch against his own hand as he sucks Jack.

 

This is the guy that Jack flung accusations at in the bullpen till he had to walk out alone, with every cop in the place glaring daggers at his back, even Vecchio, his best friend, all because he wanted to nail Louis’s real killers and not somebody else.

 

The pain bubbles up in Jack’s heart, in his middle, an expanding balloon of it that’s going to burst, just like the bubble of pleasure that’s going to burst from him lower down, and they both give at the same time, with Jack yelling, “Oh, God, oh, God, Fraser, you’re, I can’t…I’m sorry!”

 

He tries to pull away in time, but Fraser’s got too firm a grip on him, so he can’t. He shoots off in Fraser’s mouth and he’s still whispering “I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry,” even as he shudders out his pleasure and feels Fraser swallowing around him, two, three times, easing him through it, then letting him go, gently, and wiping his mouth with the side of his hand.

 

Jack pulls Fraser up on the couch with him and puts his arms around him. He’s crying again, or maybe he’s still crying, and Fraser lets him drench his sweater some more. Jack’s whispering stuff into Fraser’s neck that must sound crazy, must sound like he’s gone around the bend that everybody and the police headshrinker think he might have gone around. But he’s got to say that he’s sorry, that he was wrong, that Fraser didn’t deserve what Jack said, that none of this, none of it, was ever Fraser’s fault.

 

Jack’s not sure those are the words that actually come out, they sound more weird and disjointed than they should, but Fraser’s just nodding like what Jack’s saying might even sound kind of _normal _to him.

 

“It’s all right, Jack,” Fraser’s saying quietly into Jack’s hair.

 

Finally Jack’s tears slow down and he reaches for Fraser’s jeans. He saw how Red was rubbing himself, but never opened his pants. Red has to be aching for it under there, and Jack’s not going to be a bastard to him ever again. Certainly not now, after what Fraser just did for him. Jack needs to return the favor.

 

But Fraser shakes his head and pushes Jack’s hand away, though he manages to avoid making it look like a rejection. He takes Jack’s hand in his, instead, and just holds it, comfortingly, stroking it once in a while.

 

Jack raises his free hand and brushes his fingers over Fraser’s cheek till Fraser looks up.

 

Fraser’s eyes are so sad. Jack has no idea how to deal with that; he sure can’t take it away. He can’t lift it; Fraser’s burdens are his own, and they’re heavy, heavy like a mountain of ice. Fraser doesn’t show them, and he doesn’t want people trying to help him carry them, and yet they’re there. Jack doesn’t often notice, but he notices now. He touches Fraser’s face again. There won’t be any kisses, he knows that; that’s not the kind of thing this is, not the kind of relationship they have.

 

The only thing Fraser wanted here was to help.

 

Suddenly Jack knows what he can say to lighten Fraser’s load for a minute, the only thing that’ll work, and it’s the truth: “It helped. You helped. Thanks.”

 

Fraser doesn’t exactly smile, but he nods, understanding, and that look in his eyes eases up just a bit.  He squeezes Jack’s hand and he gets up off the couch and puts his hat on, tweaking it by the brim till it’s perfectly in place. Then he looks back at Huey like he’s going to salute or something. But he just nods, this “carry on, troops” nod…and it’s back to weird, which, weirdly enough, is normal for Fraser.

 

Jack clears his throat. He can’t get an actual sound out of it at the moment, but he mouths his thanks.

 

Fraser nods again, his face completely calm like he just did something, anything, other than what he just did for Jack. Like he filled out a report for him or lent him a ladder or some normal thing a brother cop does for another.

 

Fraser’s still looking at him, and Jack knows why. He clears his throat again. “I’ll be all right. Jill’s due back soon.”

 

Fraser tips his hat politely and he leaves.

 

Jack gets up to wash up and figures he might be able to nap after all.

 

When he wakes three hours later, Jill’s cooking, and she’s got the radio on in the kitchen; Jack can hear the music and voices and people sounding way too normal.

 

But Jack gets up, thinking he could maybe eat something, and it’s been days since he was hungry, so this is good.

 

Hell of a dream that was, he tells himself.

 

*****

 

Louis Gardino was Jack’s partner.  Jack’s not getting a new one for a while, and it’s probably going to be okay. Welsh is giving him a chance to work solo, ride his desk for a bit, get some of the backlog of paperwork sorted out, get his head together.

 

Fraser comes in to the 2-7 like always, looking like he just stepped off of the Mountie recruitment poster. He tips his hat at Jack says, “Good morning, Detective Huey,” and there’s nothing else there in his face. Not a knowing glance, not anything. He’s either pretending nothing happened, or maybe he really believes nothing much happened. Jack got hysterical, needed a friend, Fraser was there. End of story.

 

Maybe it was just one of the things friends do for each other in the Frozen North; Jack has no idea. But it makes a peculiar kind of sense, since there are not so many women up there. Not enough, probably. Before, Jack would have sworn Fraser was bent; now, after he’s had what most people would consider positive proof, he’s not really sure.

 

At least Jack doesn’t have to worry Fraser will talk. If there’s one thing he knows about Benton Fraser it’s that nobody can make him do anything he’s made up his mind not to do. So Jack doesn’t have to worry about any of it. It’s over, or it never happened, and the important thing is that Jack’s feeling just that little bit better about everything.

 

He’s got no partner and a pile of boring paperwork. Nobody smokes in his car any more, either.

 

He never thought he’d miss that, but it’s peculiar the things your mind can do.

 

He looks back across the bullpen, sees Fraser standing practically at attention in front of Vecchio’s desk, waiting for Ray to get off the phone. Ray’s waving his hands around, gesticulating, his voice thinning faster than his hair. Everything’s insanely _normal_ in the station.

 

Jack thinks he should go get some coffee, take a walk up and down the corridor, clear his head. He glances over at Fraser’s ramrod-stiff back. A wave of heat floods over Jack. Shit. Can’t be thinking about ramrod anything, not here in the station.

 

He straightens the paper on his desk and gets up to head for the break room, but damn it if he doesn’t feel compelled to look over toward Vecchio’s desk one more time. Vecchio’s standing now, off the phone but still waving his arms, obviously telling Fraser one of his cockamamie ideas. His garish suit would be blinding anybody at close range who wasn’t already decked out in Santa Claus red.

 

But Fraser’s just smiling his discreet little smile, looking indulgently amused at his partner’s antics, looking cool as a breeze off the tundra.

 

Jack looks at him and realizes if he hadn’t _been_ there, he’d never believe that that guy, Big Red in the buttoned-up Mountie suit, would ever have dropped to his knees for Jack Huey, down one partner, down and out, just a few days ago.

 

Come to think of it, Jack was on some meds right after the funeral, when he started talking crazy and Jillian insisted, dragged him to a doctor. Maybe…he hated to think it, but maybe when Fraser visited things didn’t happen exactly the way Jack remembered.

 

Because, could you believe for a minute, could you really think, that _Benton Fraser_ would turn out to be the hottest cocksucker in Greater Chicago? It just doesn’t make any sense.

 

A lot of things don’t make any damn sense.

 

And it doesn’t matter, because Fraser isn’t for Jack. He either helped out a friend in the most oddball way, or Jack had the hottest fucking dream of his life, but, hell, either way it isn’t going to bring Louis back.

 

What that means right now is that Louis is never going to finish his half of the goddamn paperwork.

 

Jack sighs, and heads down the hallway for his coffee. He’d better get it quick and get back to his desk. He has a hell of a lot of catching up to do.

 

 

 

_fin_


End file.
